AN: Sad, sad, depressing thing that it is, this story was written for a prompt at the HTTYD lj community that occurs out of the movie's version of events. A sort of "what if?" idea.
The prompt: "The bolas did too much damage, and Toothless will never fly again, with or without Hiccup's help."
Pain.
But not just pain, pain that seared and bit and tore, pain that blocked any memory of a time when it had not been present.
Pain.
The night fury startled into wakefulness, wings snapping open, mouth open wide to spout hellfire into the ghosts of the claws and jaws that had held it moments before.
The cove was silent, though. The dark shadows of the glorious night hugged the recesses of the stone walls, and the ethereal gleam of Máni's chariot kissed the ground and still waters with soft light.
The dragon let his aching wings relax, the pain sighing back into a dull ache that tore into his broad shoulders with less ferocity. Sensing that sleep would not be coming again soon, the dark dragon carefully pulled himself upright and turned his nose towards the calm pool of his prison. Every step was measured, every movement made with mindfulness to his injuries. The open scrape upon his neck throbbed a little in protest as he paused, head craned upwards and nose searching for familiar smells that were not there.
Had the little two-legs been there, he might have startled at the long, keening note that the dragon warbled. The sound echoed off of the sheer cliffs of the cove, leaping free into the night sky like a caged bird escaping a particularly depressing prison.
No answer came back, however. The dark beast hung his head in dejection and continued onwards, claws sliding and shifting the fine gravel by the water's edge with no thought for stealth anymore.
The water smelled much as the plant life did, fresh and crisp, full of life and mid-season's comforting rich time. The dragon's sensitive nose detected the scent, but thought little of it. He did not drink. Instead, he thoughtfully regarded his reflection with eyes dilated for maximum visual acuity. He didn't want to see, but he knew that he must.
Cautiously, he turned his head this way and that, taking in the damage that had come with being torn from the sky. A long, tapering scar ran from the tip of his nose to the top of his head, ending bluntly where one of his wind-sensitive nodes used to be. In between, his left eye was mercifully intact, though it felt like half the bark from the ancient tree he'd plummeted into had torn across his eyelid.
The dragon extended his wings, wincing from the pain as it lashed and arced across the aching muscles of his back and the sensitive bone and membranes of the extremities themselves. Harsh tears in their webbing denoted the places where the merciless ropes had cut into them as he'd struggled. Large, rough holes pockmarked their surfaces, where they'd been punctured by tree branches, stone, and his own fangs as he'd desperately bit and torn at his bindings. Panicked fool that he'd been, he hadn't realized at the time that he was injuring himself. The strain of holding the left wing upright finally became too much, and he let the twitching limb relax. It was broken, and badly.
The night fury keened again, the sound bouncing off the now-hateful surface of the pool, and sending ripples shivering away towards the opposite shore. This time it was a low cry, a mournful one, a death song.
He would not fly again, no longer would he dance among the stars and clouds. He would never leave this place in life. There would be no glorious death in mortal combat against the two-legged beasts, instead there would be a slow decline into starvation, disease and decay. The only uplifting thought he could muster was that as far north as the two-legs island was, the journey to Hel would be a brief one. There, he would rest eternally.
Would that the little two-legs had gone ahead and finished him, there might be something better. The eternal battle, the great reunion!
But that world was lost to him now.
There was a sound, then, much akin to a particularly-clumsy rock falling out of a tree. The dragon raised his head, and his heart sang at the sight of the small two-legs, righting himself after falling most of the way down the cliffside. It must have followed him. The scrawny creature made harsh, complaining noises, fluttering its' unimpressive limbs and staggering upright again.
Their eyes met.
The night fury roared a challenge, and ran, best he could, forwards. The two-legs yelped and squalled, scrambling backwards and wedging itself behind a large boulder. The dragon leaped over the stone, snapping and hissing at the intruder, who cowered and whimpered, much as he had the last time they'd met.
The dragon attempted, time and time again, to provoke the small thing to fight. It would not, though. It even went so far as to throw away the flimsy makeshift talon that it carried.
Disgusted, the dark beast turned it's back on the youngster, returning to the shore. Once again, it was denied the most basic right of a self-respecting dragon: death in the jaws of combat. The two-legs was approaching, calling out with its' pointless nonsense sounds. The little creature stopped next to the night fury's ruined left wing, gently touching the battered appendage. He did not react, though. There was no point. This tiny thing was no threat to him. Unfortunately. All that was left was to wait for the valkyries.
Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III cautious eased his way closer to the now immobile beast. The only sign that it was aware of his presence was the slight flick of one of the long ear nodes upon its' head. Moments before, he'd been convinced that it was going to tear him limb from limb, but the dragon's vicious-seeming claw swipes and jaw snaps had always, always been just close enough to terrify him without actually causing him harm. Finally, when he'd thrown away his small dagger, the dragon had glared at him and spat a rumbling disgusted sound before retreating to the edge of the small body of water in the cove.
"Hey... hey dragon..?"
The night fury made a soft, disinterested whuffing snort, but didn't turn to engage him. Encouraged, the teenager continued to creep forward. Could he actually touch it, or would it turn and bite his hand off? Closing his eyes, Hiccup leaned forward, stretching out his hand as far as he could, eyes squinted shut so that if the dragon ate him, he wouldn't see it coming.
His trembling fingertips made contact. The dragon's scaly skin felt slick, smooth, and cool, but he noticed as he dared move his hand upward, there was a definite warmth that rested just below the surface. Elated, he drew in a gasping, laughing breath as he ran his palm up onto a wing. Incredible! Just incredible! His fingertips brushed something rough, and with his eyes still closed he tried to guess what the rough-edged, slightly sticky structure he was feeling could be. Abruptly his eyes snapped open as the great beast beneath him made a whispered whimper of pain.
His hand rested firmly upon a rough protrusion which made an open wound in the dragon's left wing, which he only now noticed was sitting at an angle that looked a little unnatural in the shining moonlight. Startled, he drew his hand away, only to notice that it came back smeared with something dark that smelled of sulfur and copper. All warmth left him with the realization that it was blood.
A viking should be elated, he realized, to down a dragon. A viking should be filled with pride to have single-handedly brought down what was generally regarded as the biggest, most pressing threat against the village. Looking at the slumped form before him, he could only feel shame and disgust for himself, and tremendous sorrow for the creature. That afternoon he'd told it that he would cut out its' heart and it had seemed to surrender to the idea. This was no surrender though, the dragon's lifeless eyes and lightly trembling form spoke of pain and loss, of a depression so severe that killing the poor creature might be a kindness.
The dragon emitted a soft, squealing whine, and Hiccup felt his heart seize and throat constrict. Was it... was it crying? Did dragons cry? That was ridiculous, though... wasn't it? The whine gave a little hitch and choke, and Hiccup was compelled to step closer, reaching to gently touch the beast's shaking hide. He hissed softly in sympathetic pain as his fingers traced one of the jagged tears in the dark dragon's great wing.
"I did this."
The admission stung, but not as much as the tears pricking at his eyes. The dragon was ignoring him, staring out at the shining surface of the little pool in the middle of the cove which reflected the endless night above them. The water's surface was marred by ripples from the dragon's heavy breath, much like he'd marred this incredible creature, distorting it into a wobbly mockery of it's former pristine self.
"I did this."
Hiccup fell to his knees, staring at the tattered ruins of the most amazing beast he'd ever seen.
"I..." he began to sob uncontrollably, for the flightless dragon, for his folly in only now seeing it as a living, feeling creature, and for the pointless agony he had brought upon them both.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, head held low. "I'm so, so sorry. I'll spend the rest of my life taking care of you, it's all I can do to try and make this right."
Before him, the night fury continued to stare at the warped reflection of the moon, unresponsive. Perhaps the little twolegs vikinglet would make good on his vow, perhaps not. The dragon could not find it within himself to care.